


Unmoored

by aurumdalseni (kyo_chan)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Character(s), Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14282679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyo_chan/pseuds/aurumdalseni
Summary: After escaping the Empire a second time, Shiro finds himself stranded in a stolen fighter with no way to survive. But Shiro's good at everything but dying. When he finds himself on the trade ship Stymphalion, its captain, a half-Galra by the name of Kharion, grudgingly agrees to provide him safe passage. For the first time since he left Earth he's not Champion or Black Paladin or even ace pilot Takashi Shirogane; he's just another crew member. In anonymity, he’ll discover who he is when all of his titles are stripped away. On the journey, he'll find his hardest taskmaster yet. And in Kharion, he'll find a kindred spirit.Shiro may be drifting, but one way or another, he'll find his way home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is dedicated to [Demenior](http://demenior.tumblr.com) and [Gitwrecked](http://gitwrecked.tumblr.com), who were the most monstrously wonderful enablers I have ever met. Without them, this story wouldn't be what it is, and I'm so lucky they kept encouraging me. 
> 
> Secondly, I'd like to thank [Cappie](http://leonineheroes.tumblr.com), my awesome artist and best girl, who put up with all my RL stuff and silly waffling before I got down to business on this fic. She will ever be an angel in my eyes.
> 
> And in case all the signs didn't point to it, this is for the Whisper Bang, brought to you by the folks who thought it would be a great idea to host a collab project that was "not a bang, but a whisper". I hope you enjoy!

_…‘Twas but a little shipwreck in the black, dead in the water as they say. But you know Stymphalion. A core of softness for misfits, mutineers and the mishandled. She found him when he should be but a speck of debris. Broken he is, put back together with scars and steel, still a-breathin when he was found. When he wakes, I will know from what black hole he crawled out of with a stolen vessel and only his skin and bones…_

/

Shiro draws the blanket tighter around him. The material is rough, like wrapping himself in a canvas bag — the itchy kind — but at least it’s warm. He sits on the edge of the examining table, alone with an alarming number of instruments that look nothing like anything he’s seen during his Garrison physicals. The cabinet of medicines is equally disturbing, vials and corked bottles of varying sizes and colors that did not put his mind at ease. His leg still aches, and he absently digs the heel of his hand into the muscle right above it, willing it to stop throbbing. It’s distracting, and on top of everything else, more distraction is definitely not a thing he needs.

He’s bottled up pain before, pushed it way down to where he couldn’t feel it anymore. Shoving it to reasonable levels is what’s allowed him to survive this long, and he’ll be damned if he gets sloppy about pain now.

_This will be…my last entry…_

Shiro doesn’t remember much after that, not how he was found, or what became of his Galra fighter, nothing. He’d woken up in this very room, struggled and fought while many hands held him down. In and out of consciousness he’d gone until finally when he woke up again he’d stayed awake.  His return to the real world had begun with an unfamiliar face and an even more unfamiliar hand high up on his leg, much farther than his wound. He’d let out a protest, he’d struggled, and someone had answered his plea. It got hazy again after that.

The door to the med bay whooshes open, and Shiro squares his shoulders for a fight, just in case. Not very intimidating while burrowed in the blanket, but if anyone puts a hand on him again, they won’t like what happens. He glowers at his visitor while tension winds tight along his spine. He _does_ remember this alien in particular, huge and imposing, chasing everyone out. The one who’d been touching Shiro was bent under the grip of the alien’s fist around the back of his neck. It had been cradling the offensive hand like it had been broken, and Shiro thinks that might be accurate.

Now there’s just the imposing alien, broad shouldered intense. Standing up, Shiro estimates he’d reach chest-height, if that. The room doesn’t feel smaller for the breadth of him, but Shiro sure as hell does. Now that he isn’t surrounded by chaos and voices, he really takes a look. The purple hues of his visible skin and fur immediately scream Galra to him, and Shiro’s nails dig into his left palm. His right hand starts to make the space underneath the blanket so much warmer.

The alien raises a brow. “You’d fight me?” he asks, tone somewhere between amused and exasperated. “I have saved your skin twice now, little shipwreck, and yet you would consider raising a hand to me.”

“Saving me from something terrible doesn’t mean you’re an ally,” Shiro replies.

“Point taken. But striking first and asking questions after will not earn you any favors either.”

“What do I have to gain by earning your favor? And after the last guy, how do I know it’s a bargain I’d even want to make?”

“For one thing, I am your only safe passage through this solar system. Your fighter is out of commission and you have no other access to resources or foods. If you’d like to join ‘the last guy’ out the airlock, then by all means, you’ve just made all of this easier.”

“Then you’ll take me where I need to go?”

“I am not a shuttle service.” The alien grins wide, and Shiro winces at all the sharp teeth. “I s’pose perhaps I could be, but only when the proper fare is paid, of course.”

“Of. Course.”

“Since you seem to be as prickly as my first mate in shedding season, I’ll forgive your lack of manners and we can try this again. I am Kharion, and you have been graciously invited aboard my ship, the Stymphalian. My crew and I will treat you with behavior due an unknown stranger — well, at least they will, short one medical trainee who apparently liked touching things that didn’t belong to him.” Kharion sighs. “Waste of talent that one.”

“Did you really…throw him out of the airlock?” Shiro asks, brow creasing.

“Of course.”

Kharion doesn’t elaborate, gives no explanation or seems to need to justify his actions. Shiro thinks he might not have been so extreme as to toss someone out into the vacuum of space for being handsy, but it’s not his ship, not his circus. He has another one he needs to get back to sooner rather than later. He’d been so _close_ …

“My name’s Shiro,” he begins, and as the rest of his spiel climbs up his throat, he’s tired of the taste of it. He’s just. Tired. “I’m a pal—”

Kharion holds up his hand, stopping Shiro mid-sentence. “Are you that daft?”

Shiro blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Our good emperor and universal tyrant has a price on your head that would feed my crew for decafeebs, and you would just announce yourself to the first person you see that doesn’t look like they’d turn you in. I’m guessing your standards aren’t too high?”

“Are you going to turn me in?”

“You’d make a rather handy bargaining chip.”

Shiro tenses, and he feels the heat of his quintessence creeping over his skin again. He bites his tongue against anything that might accidentally slip and waits. Their gazes hold in a deadlock and he’s clammy under the blanket. Kharion’s eyes are a little too Galra for his comfort, and now he wonders if he’s pushed too far—

“Don’t give me a reason to hand you over, little shipwreck. I would rather not, but if you make trouble for me and mine, I’ll make that choice so fast, you won’t get to enjoy your liberation from the Empire’s captivity. Are we clear?”

The back of Shiro’s tongue tastes like acid. “Crystal.”

“Good. Now, if your legs work, come with me. I’ll show you where you can sleep that doesn’t have these odd concoctions staring back at you.”

Shiro can’t argue with that. He braces his hands on the edge of the examining table and stretches out his legs again, not letting anything show on his face when a jolt of pain shoots along his injured thigh. Disappointed, he moves to shrug the blanket off and leave it in the infirmary.

“You can bring the blanket with you.”

Kharion is already moving towards the door, but never fully gives Shiro his back. It seems he trusts Shiro about as much as Shiro trusts him. That’s appropriate for the situation, and still, he’s not about to decline the offer. He tugs the blanket back over his shoulders, holding it in place with his left hand, leaving his right free. It’s still his single most useful weapon, as well as his most uncomfortable burden. It’s almost always the best of a bad situation, and Shiro finds himself bitterly wishing he’d stop ending up in bad situations.

They exit the med bay and step out into the hallway beyond. The passageway is narrow for Kharion, which means that Shiro only feels a little claustrophobic. It doesn’t seem to bother Kharion in the slightest, and he leads Shiro to a stairway that’s more like a ladder leading upward. It’s lit by tiny lights that remind Shiro of the walkway guides on a flight deck. He fumbles with the blanket as he tries to get a good hold and climb at the same time, not wanting to fall behind. It’s awkward, and he probably shouldn’t care so much, but he’s so unwilling to let that little bit of comfort go. So he struggles his way quietly up to the next level. Kharion has been so gracious as to wait for him, and without looking completely impatient or exasperated with him in fact. Shiro only barely manages to resist a petulant glare as they start up again, and he falls into step alongside the Kharion, even with the drastic difference in their stride. It’s important to him not to have to walk in someone’s shadow, and as his leg starts to throb again, he curses his own pride but still doesn’t fall behind.

Kharion pushes a heavy door open, and they move out onto the main deck. That’s when Shiro slips out of pace, getting only a few steps before he has to stop and take it all in. Just when he thought the observation decks of the Altean castle had the most amazing view he’d ever seen, the top deck of the Stymphalian made it look like staring at the stars through a porthole. The wide expanse of it sprawls out, a thick glass-like dome protecting them from the lack of air beyond but offering the finest view of stars as far as the eye could see. It reminds Shiro of cruise ships he’d seen on brochures in his grandpa’s mailbox. When he was younger, they’d been thrown away as junk mail, but he’d always wanted to go on a cruise. See the open sky and feel the ocean breeze on his face. Well, the air tickling his skin isn’t anything like an ocean breeze, the shield arcing above his head won’t allow for anything but the safe air of the ship’s generators, but his breathless awe sure feels appropriate to his childhood fantasies. It brings home the whole reason he’d wanted to go to space in the first place. He’s relieved, honestly. His time with the Galra hadn’t completely destroyed that tiny bit of good in him; he can be thankful for that.

“Look at the drifter all awake and wide-eyed!”

The voice doesn’t belong to his host, and it jerks Shiro back to reality. He blinks away afterimages of the sky until he can focus on the face before him. She’s smaller than Shiro by a few inches, but just as broad in the shoulders. The space suit she wears is form-fitting and full of straps, from which dangle all manner of instruments, from sheathed blades to flasks to cylindrical metal things that remind Shiro of LED flashlights. What isn’t covered by the suit is blanketed in a thick layer of coarse fur. Her face is more of a snout, tapering back into something between whiskers and a beard, and if that’s hair on her head, it’s twisted into thick weaves studded with trinkets and baubles. She doesn’t wait for Shiro to study her for too long before greeting Kharion with a stiff half-bow, then starts reaching for Shiro’s shoulder. As if she knows what had happened to the last crew member who touched him, she thinks better of it and pulls back. Clasping her hands in front of her, she bows more deeply to him.

“Welcome aboard! I’m first mate Orrio, and it looks like you didn’t completely offend the cap’n, so cheers to you!”

Shiro side-eyes Kharion. _First mate_. “Prickly?” he says idly.

“Why’d you have to go and slander me to the boy before we even meet, y’bastard?” she swings and punches Kharion square in the shoulder, unrepentant, and clearly not worried about any sort of repercussion for the action.

Shiro holds his breath, waiting for it regardless. When Kharion remains as immovable as before, only crossing his arms over his chest, Shiro finally exhales. He doesn’t know if he should bow or try to shake hands or what he should do. So he just offers a wary smile, trying not to think about how he must look on deck and completely visible to Kharion’s crew with a blanket on his shoulders like a child.

“I’m Shiro, and I guess I’m hitching a ride aboard your incredible ship.”

“Ain’t no hitchin’ to it. The cap’n’ll get his fare outta you one way or ‘nother, boy. But you look a good size, so I ain’t too worried.” she’s already forgiven Kharion, because she grins up at him.

Shiro wants the deck to swallow him. Or if he could somehow ascend to the stars, where he doesn’t feel eyes on him, that would be great.

“Got plans for ‘im then?”

“A few had come to mind. But don’t scare him overboard so soon. At least let him get a good meal in him,” Kharion scolds her. “Let him appreciate his good fortune to have been found by our crew.”

“Were a mess, y’were,” she tells Shiro, and while she doesn’t outright tsk, the tone is there. “Bloodied up from your leg, no food and no air. Y’like the high risk danger type situations, don’t you?”

Shiro opens his mouth, and at first, nothing comes out. How does one end up on a ship — a space _pirate_ ship, no less — and say right to an alien’s face that his idea of danger and high risk is sneaking out of the Garrison to go clubbing? There’s no small amount of irony here, not when two years later, he’s fighting for the fate of the universe and doing a miserable job of it. “Yeah, you could say that. Let’s go with that.”

She leans in, sizes him up with depthless black eyes Shiro swears should have stars of their own in them, then wuffles her beard-whiskers at him. “A wee babe to be near-dead in the black. We’ll getcha where you’re going, if you can suffer the cap’n’s overbearin’ self that long.”

Of one thing, Shiro can be damn sure. “If it gets me home, I’ll suffer him ten times over and then some.”

Kharion looks down at him, and this time, Shiro turns his head to right back. He’s going home, that much he’s decided. How depends on Kharion, and after everything he’s been through, Shiro’s pretty sure he’ll do it.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro expects the quarters he’s given to be like a cell. Maybe that’s just past experience speaking, but he’s not expecting a clean and well-lit cabin. It’s not terribly big, but it has a bunk built into the wall, a water closet partitioned off and shelves constructed on the opposite side of the room for his belongings. Not that he really has any, but it’s the thought that counts. Only when he’s safely inside and alone does he pull the worn box of food he’d been given from under his blanket. That thing has become a cloak; he treats it as though it’ll protect him from anything that might befall him. 

In reality, old habits really do hold fast. He may have been told he’s welcome on the ship, but he’s not about to let anyone see he has food to take. If it actually turns out that he’s just a prisoner here, he’ll make sure he guards his food, fights for it. None of the other crew members they passed even seemed to care. Rather, they cared about a newcomer in their midst, and all of them are as eager and curious as Orrio had been. It could be worse, Shiro reasons, but after waking up to someone touching his skin as a prelude to loud noises and chaos, he’s glad for a moment of quiet. He sits down on the edge of his bed and finally lets the blanket fall from his shoulders, suppressing a shiver and instead focusing on his food. Another small favor — it’s not gelatinous and bright green, nor does it taste like burnt kale.

_ You’d best get some sleep, little shipwreck. Your day will start early. _

Shiro shifts, sitting cross-legged, becoming as small as he possibly can while hunched over his meal, keeping his gaze on the door. He thinks about the captain, and while he knows he shouldn’t label any purple alien bigger than he as Galra, he can’t quite shake the feeling that Kharion is. His thoughts linger to Kharion being Sendak’s size, and with a shudder, he quickly steers his thoughts to Antok instead. At the very least, he has a size to compare Kharion to that doesn’t make his head want to throb. Though Kharion had implied he might turn Shiro in to the Galra Empire, Shiro wants to trust his gut when it whispers he’s not in that danger. Yet. Maybe if he causes a ruckus or makes life difficult for the ship and its crew, Kharion might change his mind. Kharion had steered him away from talking about who he really is and where he’s trying to go. Maybe, for safety’s sake, he’ll try to keep that information under wraps. But it makes him anxious. He doesn’t know how long he’s been away, or what’s been done to him since—

Shiro’s stomach turns, the light in the room tinging a sickly magenta-green. He puts what’s left of his food aside so quickly he almost drops it, and pinches the bridge of his nose.  _ Easy there _ , he tells himself, willing the nausea in his belly not to turn to bile in his throat. He’s not in the lab anymore, he’d gotten  _ away _ , there’s no need to panic. He just needs to focus. Focus on staying alive and getting back to the castle, back to the Black Lion. He feels a pang in his chest next, and it’s nothing like the throat-closing panic. This ache hurts him deeper than his body can comprehend. It’s a severed emotional artery, it’s the jagged edge of broken trust. It’s…nothing he wants to think about now.

Shiro doesn’t remember curling up in a fetal position on the bunk. Nor does he have any recollection of drawing the blanket tightly around him. He shuts his eyes tight against all the things his heart wants to run from, but his mind has him running straight back to.

He dreams of endless voids and shattered homes.

/

Shiro finds a change of clothing folded on the chair next to his bunk. It disturbs him that he hadn’t heard anyone come in to leave them. He’s been a light sleeper since his capture, a habit that’s never left him since. He decides not to think on it too hard, but only after squirming out of bed and checking himself in the mirror. Nothing too askance, other than his sleep mussed hair, and no new marks. He lets out a breath and washes up before changing into what he’s been left. 

The suit reminds him of what goes on under his paladin uniform, and made of some remarkably sturdy material. It’s not entirely comfortable, not the way the Altean suit is. Instead, it’s like the blanket, functional and practical. There are a pair of breeches that lace up from mid-thigh to hip, and he knows a younger and more vivacious him would have thought it a shame that the suit covers up what skin would have been shown between the laces. The Shiro of now is grateful to be covered, especially on a ship full of strange aliens he still doesn’t know he can trust. The jacket is slightly too big for him, threatening to sneak off his shoulders if he moves wrong, but it has buttons in front, and he fastens them. He’s glad there isn’t a mirror in the room; he probably looks ridiculous, like going into his grandfather’s closet as a kid and wearing his tailored smoking jackets to feel like a grown-up. He covets a wistful smile before seeing to the final matter at hand.

Shiro winces as a quick comb of his fingers through his hair ends with them tangled in all sorts of knots. He glances around - no brush in the room - and sighs. There is a tie next to the basin, and he’s still suspicious of anyone who could get into his room and back out again without waking him up. He hastily winds the mess of his hair away from his face, into a sloppy knot and ties it back. He wonders if the captain would object to letting him borrow some kind of comb. 

As good as he’s going to get, he heads toward the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. Where is he supposed to go? All he had been told is that his day would start early. With a snort, he wonders if it’s actually early or if he’s already late to the place he’s supposed to be at the very vague time he was given. Deep breath. He pushes out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. As if he’s gone on high alert the moment he’s out of the questionably safe space, he becomes aware of all the sounds the ship makes. The standing hum of engines in waiting reminds him of the castle ship, but they’re louder, a rumbling in his chest. To his knowledge, they’re not actually moving yet. He proceeds carefully, unaware of just how cautious he is to make as little sound as possible, head swinging back and forth, on the lookout for enemies. It feels like it takes forever to get to the end, to find a set of the ladder-stairs he had climbed with Kharion the night before to end up on deck. 

“Let’s do this,” he tells himself, and makes his way to up.

“Look who’s here!”

It’s Orrio’s voice. He seeks her out finding her standing before a set of multiple screens. She glances at him over her shoulder, throwing him a smirk as she looks him up and down. “Not terrible. Not a whole lotta ya is exposed, and that ain’t nothin’.”

Some of the other crew members had stopped what they were doing on the main deck, staring at Shiro intently. Too many eyes, ears, wiggling parts, hands. It’s like the first time he was paraded past the cells back at the Arena holding area. Everyone wanted to know who he was, what he was and how he ticked, scrabbling about to get close, chittering in languages he couldn’t understand. He swallows down an acidic lump and gives Orrio his full attention.

“Am I in the right place?” he asks. 

“For now. I’ll give you the rundown while we wait for the cap’n.” She waves her hand before the screens in an encompassing gesture. “These are the controls for the main power hubs of the ship. She’s an older model, so some o’her parts are good ol’ fashioned engineering the way they use’ta do it in the old days of the Empire. She don’t run on quintessence, but we do have to sweet talk a Balmera or two when she runs outta main power. These right here? Backup reserves to get us to safety in a blackout.” 

Mention of the Balmera is comforting. For what it’s worth, Shiro will look for anything familiar at this point. He nods and listens as she goes through the rest of the screens. Codes for the cargo bays with encryptions. Shiro peers at them and recognizes symbols in the Galran language. They might be something he can crack if he needs to. 

He hopes he doesn’t need to.

Main engine stats, turbines, hydraulics. Shiro feels like this hulking ship is a chimera of structure and technology. He has no idea how it all works together, and he’s grateful that it’s not necessary.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the crew start to pull back again, and he turns fully to see Kharion approaching. Maybe it’s the discomfort from being around so many nosy aliens, but Kharion seems bigger, more imposing than he had the day before. Perhaps it’s because the novelty of owing gratitude to someone who’d stood up for his virtue had worn off some. Shiro is even more focused now on how to use this arrangement as a means to get back to wherever the Castle of Lions had gone. Sure, he’s still glad Kharion had intervened on his behalf, both in rescuing his ship before he died from lack of oxygen and when he’d been obnoxiously groped. But none of that means Kharion’s intentions for Shiro are any less harmful.  _ The cap’n’ll get his fare outta you one way or ‘nother, boy. _

Shiro stands up straighter as Orrio repeats her half-bow greeting from the day before. 

“Start preparing for launch. We have a rendezvous in thirteen vargas, and I’ll not have us late.”

“Aye, cap’n.”

“You,” Kharion adds, looking pointedly at Shiro. “Come with me.” Unlike before, he doesn’t wait for Shiro to follow before he starts heading away from the prow, towards the back of the ship. 

“Is he always this cheerful?” Shiro quips to Orrio with a widespread shrug.

“No. Git ye after him.”

Oh yes, the novelty is starting to wear off. Shiro sighs and tries not to look too eager to catch up as he jogs to make up for Kharion’s longer gait. Along the way, he tries to remember what he’s learned about ships and their anatomy. The Garrison had only provided one course on sea navigation, and Shiro had been so focused on the sky he would probably sink a real boat if he tried to pilot it. Stymphalion isn’t like the Castle of Lions, which honestly looks like a rocket ship when its launched. It looks more like a water ship than anything he’s seen since coming to space. There are no masts, no sails; they’d find no tailwind out here. From on the deck, it’s difficult to tell the front of the ship from the back when it’s not moving, but until he’s proven otherwise, he’ll assume Orrio is at the front, and the direction they’re heading is the back.  _ The stern _ , he reminds himself, or maybe he’s gotten it backwards. Maybe aliens call ship things something completely different. Whichever direction they’re going, it’s away from the first mate and the rest of the crew, and that’s just fine with him.

They reach the end of the deck and there’s a doorway underneath a raised platform. Kharion places his hand over the scanner. It reads once, twice, then finally grants them access. He finally gives Shiro some manner of attention, a sweeping gesture within. “Inside. We have business to discuss.”

Shiro takes a deep breath, hesitant to put Kharion at his back, but in the interest of gaining the trust he doesn’t know if he can give, he makes his way in.

The captain’s room is far more modest than Shiro expects, or perhaps there’s more he just doesn’t see. All he knows is the room is intimate, with very little wasted space. It reminds Shiro of all the little nooks and crannies of the Kerberos shuttle. A place for everything, everything in its place. Once more, it strikes him how old fashioned the ship feels, despite it’s advanced engines and technology. He assumes this chamber in particular is what serves as an office. There’s a small table and a stool that are both bolted to the floor. All the shelving is built in, and while it’s not quite wood, it does make Shiro reflect back to Olkarion. Tucked into the shelving are real books, scrolls that may or may not be maps, and hints of treasures nestled where they can’t easily be reached.

Not knowing where he should be for this discussion, Shiro finds an empty space on the other side of the table. That seems acceptable to Kharion, who brushes past him to take his place where the stool is. Shiro sucks in a sharp breath. This isn’t the first time Kharion’s had his back to Shiro, but this is the first time he’s noticed a sharp upward sweep of purple and black from the shoulders.  _ Wings! _ Shiro realizes in a heart-stopping rush. They’re mismatched, the right one matches in the purple tones of Kharion’s fur, but the left one glints like there are flashes of metal along with the other tones. He doesn’t process much more than that because his mind is still hitched onto the phenomenon of wings in the first place, and he wonders how he ever missed them before. Shiro blinks furiously as if he means to dispel an illusion, and he thinks it must have worked because when everything comes back into focus again, Kharion is half-perched on the stool, one arm leaning on the table while he scrutinizes Shiro’s slack-jawed face.

“What is it, little shipwreck?”

Caught. Shiro feels heat creeping up into his face, and he clears his throat. “Uh, sorry, it’s just. You have wings.”

“Do I?” Kharion doesn’t pass up the opportunity to exploit Shiro’s awkwardness. He glances over his shoulder. The right wing stretches just a little bit, and Shiro chokes on air a second time. It’s webbed, like a bat’s wing, striated shades of black to purple. “Would you look at that, I do.”

Shiro’s brows crease, and he can finally find it in himself to be annoyed. “You don’t have to be obnoxious about it. I hadn’t noticed before.”

Kharion folds his wing up against his back once more, now leaning both arms on the table. “Is it unusual?”

“I don’t remember seeing wings since I’ve come to space, but in all fairness, I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff so some of it’s a blur.” He racks his brain, but he’s having trouble remembering, and trying too hard hurts.

“Your kind must have wings for you to know what they are,” Kharion points out.

“Well, yes and no. Humans, earthlings like me, aren’t born with wings, but other creatures on my planet have them.” He doesn’t know what compels him to continue when that’s certainly more than enough explanation. “In fact, it’s probably because we’re surrounded by animals with wings that we try to fly using ships. If our own bodies can’t get us off the ground, we have to find some other way.”

In spite of the rambling, Kharion doesn’t look disinterested. Shiro can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. “Is that why you are so far from your home?”

“That’s a pretty loaded question, and I get the feeling it’s not exactly relevant to the business you wanted to discuss.” Shiro’s mentally trying to slam all of his walls back into place.

“It has its place,” Kharion says. “How you came to be shipwrecked speaks to your character, and that is integral to what I have to discuss with you.”

Shiro’s nails bite into his palm again. The room is stifling; he feels trapped. “I came to be shipwrecked while trying to get home. Maybe Earth was my home before I came out into the universe, but now it’s someplace different, and that’s where I’m trying to go.”

Kharion considers that. “I know what you are,  **Paladin** .  **Champion** .”

Both names had been spoken in Galran. Shiro had heard them enough times and with such hatred laced in them that he can’t help but fall back a step, the fight or flight feeding off the spark like a pilot light of fear that will always glow deep in the recesses of Shiro’s cluttered mind. His breath comes harder and faster now, his mind running when his feet are rooted to the floor. He waits, ready to strike, but Kharion doesn’t move. If he feels threatened by the whiplash change in Shiro’s demeanor, it doesn’t show, but he also doesn’t lower his eyes or shift his focus away from him in the slightest.

“With that being said,” he finally continues, when it’s clear Shiro won’t make the first move, “I have a roughly charted course that should put us in the path of your destination within about a month or so. A fare will be required, but I assure I am not unreasonable in my price, especially for one who has come to this crew with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back. We will be departing this starport shortly, and if you agree to my terms, you will accompany us. Should you find them unacceptable, no harm will come to you, but I will leave you here to catch the next ship, and may they be as generous.”

Shiro leans heavily on the cadence and rumble of Kharion’s voice as he speaks, trying to process the words while he attempts to calm down. “Are you Galra?”

As if he’s expecting the query, Kharion doesn’t take offense. “It is in my blood, but I am not a pureblood, and my only connections to the Empire are purely self-serving.” He grins with all those teeth again. “Surely you understand.”

“Y-yeah, I do.” He thinks of Antok. Of Ulaz and Kolivan. Of Keith. “So what are your terms.”

“You will work. This is a trade ship of sorts. We will be making several stops along our journey, accepting cargo and delivering it. Your strength will be put to the good of the ship and crew. The more efficient we are at handling our business, the sooner you will return to your home of heart.”

Shiro breathes in slowly, exhales. It’s getting a little easier. “I can do that.”

“Also, I am in need of an engineer. Orrio will teach you what is needed to keep the Stymphalion running, and you will do it.”

That startles a laugh out of Shiro. “With all due respect, Captain, I’m no engineer. I’m actually a pilot.”

“Well, as I’m not offering the helm of my ship to you any time soon, you’d best be a quick study.”

“But I—”

“Decide quickly, little shipwreck. You have little time to decide if you’ll be seeing us off from the starport or the bridge.”

Shiro bites the inside of his cheek. He can’t afford to wait for another ship; he can’t take a risk on another crew. Every minute that passes feels like an hour he’s failing the team, his family, himself. If he can learn to pilot a rocket to the moon — hell, if he can become a Paladin of Voltron — then he can do anything. Including learn how to keep an alien ship in the air long enough to get where he’s going. He reaches down to the part of himself that fuels his survival instincts. This is, by far, not the worst thing he’s ever had to do, and he won’t back down from the challenge.

“I accept.”

“Good.” Kharion sounds truly pleased, which surprises Shiro. “You start immediately.”


End file.
